


A Stoic's Mind

by elektra121



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra121/pseuds/elektra121
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio and Hamlet meet at the graveyard of Wittenberg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stoic's Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox/gifts).



Horatio spends a considerable amount of his time at the graveyard.

  
He passes the gravediggers swinging their shovels, and the widows covering the graves with brushwood for All Souls’ Day, and the pastors holding the funeral eulogies. And they all nod at the tall young man in black like they nod at each other – in a quiet, casual manner –, and then they go on with their work. It is no idle fancy or doleful disposition but simple practicality that so often steers Horatio’s steps to such a place.

  
He prefers silence and privacy for his studies, and he knows quite well that he will find neither in the crowded dormitory at the Burse or at the busy library or at the students’ inns – these places do not offer the calm rest that his mind needs to gather its thoughts and to draw its conclusions. Thus, he walks quietly between the gravesides and tombs, with his Seneca in hand – like a true Peripatetic, with measured steps. He never makes haste, because he knows that every one of his steps will ultimately lead to his own grave some day, and there is no need to rush that. But there is no need to be frightened by it either. As Seneca says, men are little aware of their suffering if they don't praise death as Nature's best invention.

  
Maybe the other students find Horatio’s choice of sanctuary odd – if they care enough about him to notice –, maybe they cross themselves and whisper words of disbelief, but Horatio does not give a penny to such unlearnt superstitions. He is not afraid of ghosts coming back from the graves. Actually, he finds the idea rather ridiculous. To think that the dead – who by all that is holy should have left worldly matters behind them – would choose to wander about wrapped in bed sheets, rattling chains to frighten strangers – what an absurd idea!

  
He likes that the Saxons call the place _peace-yard_ , which expresses not only the pious hope for the dead to rest peacefully – a hope which Horatio shares – but also the peace he feels himself when strolling around the grounds or pausing on a bench near an old lime tree shedding its yellow leaves. Slowly, quietly, beautifully, they trickle to the ground, tired of life, and only now and then are they whirled about by some gentle gust of wind that rustles them softly. It is very different to the graveyard at home in Elsinore, from where one can see till Scania on the other side of the sound, with its heathen grey rune stones, overgrown with lichens, and the sharp winds from the sea. It was Horatio's last stop before boarding the ship south, when he dutifully took his leave of his kinsmen resting there.

  
Sometimes he likes to think that all graveyards are connected somehow, so that there is a fragment of the Wittenberg peace in Elsinore, too, and maybe a fragment of Elsinore here.

  
***  
It is unusually warm for early November this year, so Horatio continues to read his books outside, between choir practice and the funerals that he takes part in as a _Kurrende_ singer. Students at the Bursa are expected to sing at church services, and Horatio has a fair enough voice – and good use for the little extra money it earns him. In addition, learning the lyrics by heart is a suitable opportunity to improve his German, which is not as refined as it could be. He prefers Latin in conversations with students or professors – there truly are not many occasions that would allow him to use the Saxon tongue. A few times, he was out drinking with other students, but he soon grew tired of their loud and hasty manner of speaking, and of their boasting and competing over alleged conquests (half of which Horatio did not believe to be true, as the maidens of Wittenberg are too sensible to fall for such cheap wooing). And thus, oddly enough, his language lessons now consist of singing dirges and listening to funeral sermons that are spoken slowly and clearly, measuring every word. He likes that – and the solemn, comforting melodies of the chorals meant to assure the mourners of the eternal blessedness.

  
As Horatio ponders Seneca's _De Consolatione_ in the quiet on his bench in the early afternoon, he notices another student passing by the graves, apparently in a deep debate with himself given his wild gestures and vigorous shaking of his head. He is clad in costly yet not showy threads, and as he draws near, it dawns on Horatio that this must be the prince! He saw him once or twice as a boy at Elsinore and spotted him in a few lectures here at Wittenberg, too, but Horatio has never met him face to face – a circumstance that is about to change as the prince has chosen the path leading him directly to Horatio’s bench.  
Unsure what to do, Horatio stands up, puts his book down beside him, and waits. Yet, there is no sign in the other’s face indicating his awareness of the presence of another person at all – the prince goes on with his gesticulating as if he were all by himself, with a deep frown on his brow and something in his eyes that Horatio may call unrest.

  
“Nay! Nay! … Fie, I say.” He is very close, only a few steps away. Horatio clears his throat. Finally, the prince looks up, his gaze returning from a distant place. He stops and blinks.

  
“Good my lord,” Horatio bows, wondering whether it was the right address. Maybe it should be “my most honored lord?”

  
The prince, however, seems delighted by his Danish. His frown vanishes, and he smiles in surprise.

  
“You! So you are ‘the other Dane’ Jørg and Jens have spoken of! There really are four of us! What is your name?”

  
“Horatio.” He bows again. “Your poor servant ever.”

  
“Horatio-your-poor-servant-ever”? The prince laughs, but not mockingly. “So, Horatio it is. Sounds more like an antique Roman than a Dane. My name is Hamlet, but I suppose you know.”

  
“Yes, my lord.”

  
“Where do you come from?”

  
“I’m from Elsinore, too, my lord.”

  
The prince laughs. “It’s a small world then.” His peculiar behavior from only moments before is gone, as if the wind has blown it away. He seems now nothing but a courteous and cheerful young man, untroubled by inner turmoil.  
“Say, Horatio, would you perchance like to come to my birthday? I think I'd like to celebrate with all my fellow countrymen this year. I'm born on St. Martin's, so we will have roast goose for a feast. What do you think?"

  
Afraid the invitation might have been uttered in jest, Horatio answers tentatively, that yes, he would like roast goose for St. Martin's very well, since he was starting to get sick from the perpetual cabbage at the Burse. The prince, for his part, does not break into laughter but seems rather pleased with this answer. He tells Horatio the name of an inn, then politely takes his leave and walks away, apparently resuming his soliloquy from before. Horatio remains still for a few moments. Bewildered. He even forgot to bow.

  
_I must tell Mother_ , he rejoices, strangely amused. "Just think," he would write, "a Prince to invite me!" And he can almost picture her face, how she would raise her skeptical brow at those words in his letter – but then it hits him, that no, of course, he _will not_ tell Mother.

  
***  
As November progresses, eventually, the weather gets colder and foggy, a drizzling rain stealing the last leathery brown leaves from the trees and sending the bare branches to sleep for the winter. Even the churchyard is closed when Horatio’s seminars at the university are over, but he would not have much spare time now anyway – there are extra choir rehearsals for the coming _Totensonntag_ and _Advent_. In the mornings, his breath hangs in the air like fog as he rises early with chattering teeth, before all other students, to go stoke the fireside at the refectory. It is a good exercise to practice stoicism toward the cold – which he does not yet manage all too well. Besides, Horatio enjoys watching the embers beneath the dead white ashes glowing red and catching fire, bringing warmth and light back to the world and his mind. He has preferred to start winter mornings this way for as long as he can remember, even as a child when he used to observe his mother doing the same.

  
And so he sits by the flames flaring up and recapitulates his Greek vocabulary or ponders the events of the day before, just like Seneca would recommend. Lately, he has found himself thinking a lot about the prince. They may not have spoken much at all since their first meeting at the graveyard (and they certainly did not speak much even then), yet Horatio wonders about the other man more than it befits a Stoic. He cannot quite figure out the prince’s behavior: He asks to sit with Horatio in lectures (as if Horatio, as if anyone, would deny that request); he even reserves a seat for him as if that was the most normal thing to do for a prince. He whispers witty remarks and puns on the lessons’ academic topics in Horatio’s direction. And he keeps asking for Horatio’s opinions as if they were the judgments of a wise man.  
Indeed, Horatio does not know what to think of all that.

  
***  
On St. Martin’s Day, Horatio finds not only the roast goose very tasty but also the company much more agreeable compared to his earlier experiences at the students’ inns. Jørg and Jens (he recognizes Jørg as _Georgius Rosencrantz_ from one of his Latin courses) are pleasant, cheery fellows from Køpenhavn, laughing and gently mocking the prince for his dilettantish efforts on the lute he bought himself for his birthday.

  
“At least,” says Jens (or _Johann Guildenstern_ , as Horatio has learnt), “I’m glad your tryings with the recorder are past, my lord.”

  
“Really, what would people think seeing us again and again in the company of a piper? As if the actors wouldn’t have been bad enough!”

  
“But now our reputation will be restored in short time. Nobody that overhears you having your way with that poor instrument could ever assume you to be anything but an amateur.”

  
Yet, they are more than eager to sing with the prince – and very pleased with Horatio’s fine voice. All together, they sing some Danish songs (including the complete sad tale of the death of _Dronning Dagmar_ , whereof the prince manages the lute chords at about the 20th verse) and, at last, of course, _Gaudeamus igitur_ , to which Jens knows the baritone and Jørg the basso, so it makes for a nice enough piece of music. And yet, even if Horatio does like the songs and feels glad hearing and speaking his mother tongue again and making merry with other students, he is not quite … joyful. Neither is he sad, though. Maybe he is becoming a true Stoic now – someone who does not delight much in joy nor grieve much in sadness. Or maybe it has something to do with the strangely fatalistic lyrics, because he has to think more than ever before about the _nos habebit humus_. He tries to imagine them all in their _molestam senectutem_ ; yet he cannot for the life of him picture Jørg with a long, grey beard, nor Jens with wrinkles and without most of his teeth, nor the prince’s head bald and bearing a heavy crown. Oddly enough, he has no such problems with himself – he will look and be, more or less, like his father in his last years when Horatio was but a boy, or like Polonius, his father’s friend and colleague, who gave him an earnest and cordial farewell just like a father upon his departure for Wittenberg.

  
Not too far into the evening, Horatio excuses himself in light of his need to rise early for service the next day and leaves the prince with Jørg and Jens, laughing, drinking and enjoying their night. Surely, they are no Stoics as they clearly derive a greater amount of pleasure from the celebrations than Horatio does. Yet, he begrudges them nothing, for if they delight more in happiness now, without much doubt, they will suffer the more when sadness will inevitably overcome them one day.

  
***  
The weeks go on and the year grows old, with dark nights, stormy weather, and bitter frost, so that lectures get cancelled because the rooms cannot be heated properly – but the prince's behavior toward Horatio does not change (as Horatio assumed it would, with the birthday invitation being nothing but a fleeting whim). The prince still smiles whenever they meet, and he talks to him and listens to what Horatio has to say, and he invites him for dinner – in one way or another, he always _acknowledges_ that Horatio is there. None of Horatio’s playmates as a child, nor his classmates, nor his fellow students now at the Burse (including Jørg Rosencrantz and Jens Guildenstern, his fellow countrymen) have ever treated him like this. And never has Horatio thought so much about any one of them. It is quite peculiar. It truly is.

  
Is this, then, maybe, what having a _friend_ is like? In opposition to other Stoics, Seneca calls the desire for friends a natural drive and thus an acceptable instinct that one should give in to – yet, one should not become dependent on anything or anyone that can and will be taken away again. Thus, it would be alright to have the prince for a friend, as long as Horatio would not depend on him, for they would surely be separated again upon their return to Denmark or, at the latest, when the prince will become king. If it is allowed to delight in a friendship as long as it lasts, as long as one is aware of its inevitable end, would it not also be allowed for Horatio to have the prince for a friend?  
Mother certainly would not have approved of such thoughts, because a prince is, well, a prince and not a friend – _he has more important things to do than being a friend_ , she would say. But Horatio decides that a Stoic can very well have a prince for a friend, since in a Stoic's mind, a good man is like any other – there are neither princes nor commoners.  
***

  
Around St. Lucia’s Day, Hamlet asks whether he would like to spend Christmas Eve with him. Horatio is startled at first, yet finds no cause to decline. Upon further thought, it is quite a logic request – surely it is natural to want to celebrate the birth of Christ with one's family or friends (or at least with fellow countrymen), but the prince's family is far away, and it would be inappropriate to invite Jørg and Jens, who have their own feasts to observe. Thus, Horatio remains as the most logical choice, and therefore, he accepts.  
Since his obligations as a _Kurrende_ singer require him to partake in various Christmas services – three on Christmas Eve, and one on the first and second day of Christmas, plus an uncertain number of home visits for parishioners too old or ill to come to church –, Horatio and the prince agree that Hamlet would attend the last service, pick up Horatio after church, and then take him for dinner at Hamlet's place. The Burse will be more or less abandoned over the turn of the year, since nearly all of the students spend the holidays at home or with relatives.

  
***  
On the day of Christmas Eve, the weather is not all too ceremonious – dark and frosty, with an icy wind creeping into every crack, under every scarf and sleeve, and through every mitten to force everyone to reduce their moments out in the cold to an absolute minimum. The church offers a comfortable temperature, though, thanks to its braziers and the body heat of the many believers. Between services, the singers and musicians are provided with tea to warm their hands and voices, yet Horatio's feet stay unpleasantly cold all day despite his warmest stockings, the ones his mother made. Maybe this is what prevents him from fully rejoicing in the Christmas spirit – even when the quality of the singing, and the kindling of the lights, and the cordiality and theological profoundness of the sermon, and really everything leaves nothing to be desired. Or, maybe, Horatio is a little homesick. A lot of the hymns have tunes similar to the ones sung in Denmark, yet their words, of course, are in German, and even after weeks of practice, they are not as familiar to him as their Danish counterparts. The same can be said about most of the procedure of the service. Thus, Horatio is rather glad he will spend the evening with a countryman to quench his natural desire for his mother tongue.

  
After the last hymn is sung, he and Hamlet meet as agreed and then struggle together through what has become a veritable snow storm by now to get to the prince's lodging. It is not very far, only two or three alleyways, but they are frozen to their bones when they reach their destination, their cloaks and trousers soaked with wet snow and their hair dripping. Thankfully, the landlady has prepared a still steaming dinner with hot mulled wine, and a bright fire is crackling at the fireside – much to the delight of Horatio, who is battling an ever-growing desire for food and warmth. And though it is Lenten food (the last one!), the dishes are plenty and delicious.

  
As usual, the prince does most of the talking, and Horatio is content to lend an ear, indulging in both the meal and Hamlet's Danish, though, truth be told, he does not really follow what the prince is saying and only catches bits here and there. "You had the best part of the whole _Quempas_ singing, with your _Absint vobis iam timere_!" … "Sure they wonder what I'm doing right now." … "My mother wrote I had cleft her heart in twain with not coming home for Christmas." At this, Hamlet looks rather sad.  
"What about your parents, though?"

  
Horatio puts down his fork and knife. "My father died when I was a child."

  
Hamlet nods sympathetically. "I think it must be even harder for your mother, then. Alone, with her son so far away. What did she write? Did you write?"

  
Horatio hesitates. How to begin? "My mother... No, she did not write. She..." Why is it so difficult to say? A true Stoic must be apathetic to sorrow. "She died four months ago." He stares at his plate.

  
"I'm sorry. I didn't know! My deepest sympathy."

  
Horatio nods. He wants to thank him for the condolences, he really does, yet finds he cannot trust his voice just now. Try as he might (and he does – he is a Stoic!), Horatio is unable to prevent his eyes from spilling the truth, and he cannot lie to himself any longer.  
He is not just a little nostalgic or homesick. And it is not just a matter of practicality, nor financial necessities, nor scholarly duty that leads him to the graveyard and teaches his tongue to sing dirges and forces his mind to ponder their lyrics. No. The plain truth is that he is _mourning_ , mourning terribly for his late mother, who died shortly before his departure for Wittenberg. And no haughty Stoic's pride will ever conceal that.

  
“Excuse me, my lord,” he manages between sobs, averting his eyes. “I shouldn’t – it’s so common a thing.”

  
But Hamlet’s face does not show any disdain, only thoughtfulness. “Yes, it is a _common_ thing, isn’t it?”

  
“I’m sorry, my lord. I should bear it like a man.” Horatio wipes his eyes on his sleeves, ashamed. “Seneca says it’s no use weeping over death when all life is worth beweeping."

  
“I’d never dare insinuate you’d bear it any less than a man. A man that truly feels like a man.” Hamlet leans back, his eyes hard with judgment. “Seneca was a fool.”

  
Despite his own ambitions, and despite his generally high regards for Seneca, Horatio has to agree with the prince that the Roman’s teachings were sadly lacking in this matter.

  
"I think I have read something better regarding this… Somewhere..." Hamlet rises and rummages around his chamber, putting aside the already half-forgotten lute, and flicking through several books and notations before finally finding what he was looking for. "Here, I knew it!" He presents Horatio with a little book with several bookmarks in it. The relevant paragraph is marked with a cross of ink:

 

>   
>  _And yet, in my heart remain so deeply her face, her words and gestures, living and dying (...), that not even Christ's death (and what are all deaths of mankind, compared to his death?) can make this go away completely, like it rightly should._

  
Horatio reads, then stares at the book's cover for moments on end. Incredulous. "Luther wrote this?"

  
"I thought you would find it more helpful than Seneca."

  
"That is... – I didn't know."

  
"Would you think _him_ less a man or less wise only because he felt his loss with more passion than he maybe should have? Because he grieved? Isn't it natural to do so?"

  
Horatio shakes his head in bewilderment and sits still for a long time. "I thought," he finally says in a low voice, almost in a whisper, "that I could bear it better, without too much grief, because I am a grown man! I'm a Stoic! I wasn't dependent on my mother, like a little child would be. And yet, I mourn as much as any child would... I can't help it. I miss her so much." New tears begin to trickle down his cheeks and chin. Helplessly, he wipes at them with his hands.

  
"I think I shall grieve very much when _my_ mother dies – or my father," Hamlet admits, sitting beside him. "I hope it is a long time coming, but then I shall have the consolation of a whole kingdom grieving with me and helping me bear my sorrow. And I shall take my time with my mourning and lamenting, at least for a year! Yet, still it will be hard, I suppose. How hard it must be for you when you have to go through this all alone!"

  
For a while, there is silence, but not an unpleasant one.

  
"Will you tell me of your mother?" the prince asks.

  
Since there is no reason to object, Horatio begins to tell Hamlet everything that comes to his mind, everything that he remembers... What kind of woman his mother was… What she looked like… What she used to do and what she used to say… What she liked and what she did not like... And how much, oh how much Horatio loved her. And even though his words sometimes mix with tears (and sometimes even with quiet laughter), surprisingly, it is not so hard to do after all. It does not hurt too much as he supposed it would – because, the truth is, the pain has been there all along; he only refused to _acknowledge_ it. And for some strange reason, it is easier to acknowledge it now before a friend than it was to do to his own self. So, is this the true purpose of having a friend? But before Horatio can even think of his answer, he ceases to care whether the desire for friends is an egoistic yearning or a natural instinct. Because no matter how this issue may be resolved from a philosophical point of view, Horatio knows that it feels _good_ to have a friend.

  
Finally, as the fire dies out and the church bells start ringing in Christmas, Horatio’s mind is fully relieved of its burden. He cannot think of one more word to say. Tiredness overwhelms his body, but in a comfortable way, like after a long day of hard work. And as if the weather outside was reflecting his inner condition, the storm gradually dulls into a gentle snowfall.

  
"I should go, my lord. Thank you." Horatio rises, reluctantly, dreading the way back through all the snow. And the mere thought of the icy, abandoned dormitory makes him shiver – but if he does not leave now, he will fall asleep then and there.

  
"Of course not! I won't allow for a friend to walk without need into such a cold night! At Christmas! You'll stay here tonight – I shall even command you to, if I have to." Hamlet pulls him down and manages to put on a stern face, but Horatio would not have protested anyway. He is too weary and too glad and too grateful for the offer to even pretend otherwise, even when politeness might have been required.

  
In Saxony, the custom is to give each other gifts on Christmas night, just like parents do with their children for St. Nicholas' Day, or like wealthy people do for New Year’s Day – and Horatio believes it is the best Christmas gift he can think of right now, to be allowed to stay, stay here with Hamlet, with his one true friend, and to not have to be alone for Christmas night - despite Seneca’s argument that a sage had no need for other people than himself. Perhaps he is no sage, then. And perhaps Hamlet is right and Seneca was a fool indeed. At the moment, Horatio does not care at all.

  
Instead he languidly takes off his clothes as soon as Hamlet has blown out the candles, and he slides under the blanket beside him. Cozy and warm, he wearily blinks at the dying embers at the fireside. And for once, Horatio is happier than a Stoic would ever be allowed to feel.

  
***  
On Christmas morning, Horatio is woken by a familiar sound: Someone (Hamlet!) is already up, stoking the fire. As he watches his friend performing the ritual he has come to love so much – the flames blooming out of the ashes, the warmth beginning to radiate from the fireside, the light returning to charm away the darkness –, he feels so much more content than he has for a very long time. It is strange to watch another person doing for him what he usually does for others, and what his mother used to do as well. But, come to think of it, it is not that strange after all – as long as there will be winters, there will be someone stoking the fire anew in the morning. No matter where one will go. Whether it will be Hamlet doing it for Horatio, or Horatio doing it for other students, or mothers doing it for their families – every morning, someone will bring back the warmth and light into the world. And is this not exactly the cause of all celebrations at Christmas?

  
Hamlet ends his work, puts the poking stick at its place, and comes back to bed.

  
"If this is no Christmas miracle, I don't know what is!" he says for a morning greeting when slipping under the coverlet.

  
"What miracle, my lord?" Horatio sprawls contently.

  
"You smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before."

  
***  
Later in the morning, on their way to church, they pass the graveyard. The snowing has stopped, the sky is now clear and blue, and a bright winter sun glistens on the crisp new layer of snow. Everything looks even more peaceful than it did in the fall. As if, thinks Horatio, the gravesides and stones are wrapped into a thick white blanket under which the dead may rest in their wintery sleep until some day – just as spring wakes the plants at the end of winter –, eternal spring will wake them, too. Not as frightening ghosts rattling with their chains but as their true selves.

  
Here in Wittenberg, or in Elsinore, or anywhere else.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Burse_ = Student's Halls of Residence in the Middle ages until the 17th century. Mostly had very strict regulation and poor food.
> 
>  _Kurrende_ = Historical: in parts of Germany choir of students and pupils that get paid for the singing in church services. Today: children's church choir. 
> 
> _Totensonntag_ = Sunday of the commemoration of the dead. In Germany, it is observed at the last Sunday in the church year, that means five weeks before Christmas.
> 
>  _Jørg Rosencrantz_ : Apparently, there really was a student in Wittenberg at the end of the 16th century who was named Georgius Rosencrantz. 
> 
> _Gaudeamus igitur_ = A Latin student's song from 16th century Germany, that is, despite its language, popular today still at German universities and schools. The first verse:
> 
>  
> 
> _Gaudeamus igitur,_  
>  _iuvenes dum sumus!_  
>  _Post iucundam iuventutem,_  
>  _post molestam senectutem,_  
>  _nos habebit humus._
> 
>  
> 
> translates to:  
> So, let's rejoice,  
> while we are still young!  
> After a short youth,  
> and a boring old age,  
> earth will claim us. 
> 
> _Quempas_ = A singing tradition at Christmas Mass, living today still in Saxony, Brandenburg and Thuringia. Kurrende and choir sing a special selection of songs, telling the Nativity story, the lines splitted to several groups of singers. It is named after the first syllables of the starting song: _Quem pastores laudaverunt_ ("He, whom the shepherds praised") and considered the highlight of the Christmas service, the essence of Christmas.  
>  _Absint vobis iam timere_ means "Now don't fear anymore!"
> 
>  _"And yet, in my heart remain so deeply...":_ Martin Luther writes in a letter about the death of his little daughter.


End file.
